


A Sin (Not) Worth Repeating

by Khrysoprase



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Crossing Timelines, Death, Don't Like Don't Read, Humor as a coping mechanism, I Mean You Know How Resets Work So..., I don't know how to tag this, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inappropriate Humor, It's a whole Thing (TM), No Mercy, Not Really Character Death, Other, Time Got Mixed Up After Gaster, Time Is A Pretzel, Time Shenanigans, You Read The Tags - You Have Only Yourself To Blame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 19:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17924861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khrysoprase/pseuds/Khrysoprase
Summary: In the midst of repeatedly killing the Fallen Child, Sans makes an uncomfortable realization about his relationship with them.Heed the tags.





	A Sin (Not) Worth Repeating

One of the things Sans has learned is that as much as he likes puns, Chara’s cross the line from funny to horrifying and then dart back and forth a few times for good measure. 

The first time Chara said something that made him pause, it was when they were fighting in the Underground. He’s not sure how many times they’d Reset and he wasn’t about to ask. After a while, just trying to keep Chara at bay took priority over number puns, and anyway, he’d run out of those somewhere in the mid-100’s. Every so often, Chara would look at him expectantly anyway, as if he were screwing up his role, and here at the end of the line it’s actually oddly comforting to have someone who love-hates his puns the way others used to.

Those others are dead, now. They were dead when Chara looked up at him, bone spike embedded in their chest, grinned in a flash of sudden motion and said, deadpan, “Well, that’s one way to make a _point_.”

(He knows he shouldn’t be able to remember every death and encounter or how many people are dead and not dead at this point, but somewhere in the mid-300’s they started creeping in and he’s not sure what to think about that so he actively chooses not to think anything about it.)

“What number are we up to?” the child asks, tilting their head. They’re not bored, of course, nor are they contemplating giving up. Chara (when did he learn their name _why does thinking about time make his head hurt_ ) doesn’t give up, ever. Determination is their thing, above and beyond the way traits are normally a person’s thing. He fully expects this to go on and keep going on.

Still, he does the mental math. “Four hundred and seventy fifth go around, kiddo. For the hundredth time.”

Even he knows that pun is weak, and they give him a look that says they expected better. Sans shrugs at the kid and readies an attack. “So,” they pant out inbetween dodged bones, “I think it’s safe to say we’re fucked up if we keep going.”

He manages a bone right through their thigh, into their rear, and grins a little cheekily. “Fuckin’ A, kid, I think you’re right.”

“I haven’t been fucked like this since grade school,” they toss back, gasping for air as blood seeps out of them, spirals out onto the bone and tiles like a drop of ink in a tub of water. There’s an edge to it, too casual, venom-laced, and a smirk of sick satisfaction as he visibly starts. “Oh screw you, I get to make that joke and a skele-ton more.”

They Reset, and Sans launches into an attack right away so he doesn’t have to think about the implications. He doesn’t want to picture who did that to a kid, doesn’t want to think about how awful humans are, because if he does he’ll start to think maybe Chara isn’t all that crazy. He knows if he lets himself take in the implications he won’t be able to really object to their desire to keep killing everything. Still, despite how _incredibly_ not funny it is, he does have to let himself chuckle to relieve some of the nervous tension. On some level that’s a pretty good one. It’s also a terrible glimpse into their mind that he doesn’t like or want.

(He has a hazy, dreamlike recollection of a taller skeleton ushering him away from a body on the examination table, a splash of red, redder eyes, eyes a stygian red, staining his mind with their gaze. Sans was young then. He is not young now. He is not old. He exists inbetween linear temporal definitions, alone.

Well. Almost alone.)

“Guess what you trying to get with my mom makes you?” Chara asks a dozen Resets later, when Sans is too tired to keep them too breathless to speak. His eye flashes with annoyance that doesn’t match the smile on his face.

“Kid, _no-_ ”

“A motherfu-” They’re interrupted by a bone right through the mouth, and the infuriating redhead still manages to laugh at him. (Was their hair that auburn or their skin that pale at the start?)

Only a sick man would think of this as playing. Sans is very sick. Time has not felt stable nor consequences lasting in a long, long time, and someone who at least understands his curving, looping perception of existence’s order is oddly comforting. There is something about making a pun at someone who understands he’s trying to cope that’s almost amicable. That he keeps killing them seems to make no difference to Chara, either, as they greet him coolly with, “Knife to meet you!” “Good day and good knife.” “Greetings and _sans_ utations.” and Sans’ least favorite, “Roses aren’t red, I can see blue, this doesn’t rhyme, I’m colorblind.”

It’s almost like affection, other than the blood and violence.

“Are you actually colorblind?” he asks in the early 500’s, curious despite himself.

“Deuteranopic,” Chara replies, having gotten alarmingly fast at dodging his opening barrage. “Fully, both eyes – I see blue, gold, gray, and a couple of browns.” They grin as they ready to take a swing at him. “But right now, I’m seeing red.”

“ _Kid_ ,” he huffs, hating himself for chuckling as he sidesteps their swipe. “You don’t even know what red _is_.” Which is an interesting concept in and of itself; what does Chara see, when they look into a mirror? Golden eyes? Gold blood, or brown, maybe? “Now, if you’re ready-”

Chara is in the middle of booing when he slams them into the wall with gravity, choking the life out of them. Still, they don’t seem to mind puns about their visual disability, which is good since Sans is going to talk right through this entire thing if it means they can avoid addressing any of Chara’s sex-related puns. He’s not sure why those freak him out so badly – maybe the kid had exceptionally lewd parents or siblings and he’s reading too much into their commentary – but there’s something about those that twists at his feelings in ways he can’t put to words. Fortunately, red is a versatile word and combat creates a target-rich environment of opportunities to use it, pun intended.

(Soft hair under his hands, baby Papyrus asleep on the couch beside them, warm flesh nuzzling into his collarbone. “Shachar,” a too-familiar voice said sleepily, “means ‘dawn’. Try punning that, bare bones.” He tugged, and they refused to relinquish his hoodie-)

“What?” he asks when he realizes they’ve been staring at him for a few seconds as he zoned out. “No comment to start us off, Red?”

After he crushes their body into the ceramic tiles they stand on, Chara blinks hair out their eyes and returns evenly, “Frankly? No. I’m floored.”

The next three Resets involve his annoyed smiling-huffs-of-angry-laughter as they dodge, cackling, amused at his frustration. It’s playful, freeing, _cute_ , and of course Chara snaps suddenly and greets him after that with, “So, I guess you’re _sans_ a brother now.”

His next attack misses by inches. Chara’s hair is ruffled by the rush of air as a bone collides with the wall. “Fuck you,” he mutters, under his breath, mirth vanishing like warmth in the river in Snowdin. “What’s your angle, kid?”

They manage to grab ahold of his wrist and he’s too startled to react properly. Chara’s staring at him so intensely their eyes might as well be glowing for how hypnotic they are, and they step closer, closer, yet closer, leaning in until he can feel their breaths hit his face. Recognition dawns in their expression, confused and dazed. “Sanny Boy?” they mutter, voice a bane on his bones, a stray strand of hair brushing his face when they tilt their head. “Doesn’t that seem familiar to you…?”

(“What’s your angle?” he had deadpanned, getting himself shoved off the bed by his laughing partner for his trouble. Despite the shove, their laughter echoed loudly in the small room, incredulous and affectionate, eyes sparkling bright with mirth and love and LOVE.

“Your puns are bad and you should feel bad!” they snorted, tugging their sweater down to cover up their naked lower body almost coyly, shyly, despite the anticipatory way their eyes darted over his form. “I can’t _believe_ you killed the moment like that, you asshole!”

“It’s the dawn of a new era in debauchery,” he agreed, and dodged as they threw their pants at his head.)

He keeps Chara close as he drives bones upwards through their torso until they’re held up by marrow rather than their own feet.

“I got enough ghosts already, kid,” he informs them, smile slipping. “I don’t need familiars, too.”


End file.
